Killer
by She's a Star
Summary: She feels so soiled next to Her kind of holiness. (Faith dreams, post-s3.)


**Killer**

_By She's a Star_

**Disclaimer: **Buffy belongs to Joss Whedon.

**Author's Note:** This is rather bizarre. I've been on a Leonard Cohen kick lately, and this particular lyric jumped out at me and just reminded me of Faith addressing Buffy for some reason. So . . . I wrote a very crazy fanfic. This style's definitely abstract, and slightly bewildering, and . . . yep. It's weird. And any insane and odd spacing is intentional, just so's you know.

Set shortly after s3, when Faith's all coma-y.

_And what can I tell you,_

_my__ brother;_

_ my killer?_

_What can I possibly say?_

-Leonard Cohen, 'Famous Blue Raincoat'

            She keeps on dreaming; wild, hazy dreams, like she's tripped up on some crazy drug and it never stops, never comes crashing down. The colors are sharper; sometimes they sting her eyes, and when she blinks to try to stop it the tears are so blue it reminds her of the ocean. And then She comes.

            She, some perfect angel with the bouncy golden curls and the white dress. A halo instead of a thorny crown, and she knows that it feels like silk.

            It's funny, because She doesn't speak a lot anymore. Doesn't try to play the savior, doesn't attempt to show her the error of her ways. Once, She giggled and traced the words in the air, and they lingered like smoke. "_You can't do that! It's wrong!_" There were hearts at the bottoms of the exclamation points.

            And then She kissed her forehead, chaste as hell, and shoved a knife in her gut.

            And here she is next to this goddess, so thoroughly inadequate, so fucked up. The poster child for the Slayer gone wrong, with her hair hanging lifelessly at her shoulders and her lips all charred black. Be careful, kids, or you might turn out like this one. This is what you become when you're naughty.

            Xander shows up sometimes, and he traces her mouth with his fingers and tells her in a sharp whisper that he doesn't care, that she doesn't mean anything, not to anyone, and she tries to remind him that _she_ kicked him out. He just stares. And she waits for the big punch line, the _b'dum'chh_, the dopey stupid look in his eyes, because she needs to be reminded that he's a moron, that she's the strong one

            she's the strong one.

            It doesn't come.

            Willow just sits back and giggles, twists her hair around her finger. So _weak_, and why does She bother with her? She shouldn't, there's no point, because only faith can understandhersaveher and she remembers this guy that she screwed once. He'd smiled at her, crookedly, and told her she was pretty, and she'd punched him without knowing why, and she is so useless after all.

            Angel creeps up behind her at night, when her turquoise sky goes royal, puts his hands on her hips, nips at her neck. The blood dries on her shoulders, traces words that she can't understand, things like 'love' and 'goodness' – 'i need you.'

            He laughs softly to himself, and never breathes; just drags a cross against her flesh, and it stings but she can't scream, because it paralyses her. She's just like him; soulless.

            The man she killed, the one with the empty eyes, turns up in corners sometimes. She'll take a step and he'll be there, still and smiling, something in the air around him telling her just what lurks within her, in alleys where the winter never gets cold-- the stains get darker every time. He just needs a new fucking shirt, and she tells him that, but he never listens. Why should he? No one else ever has.

            "Now, Faith, you know that's not true," comes from behind her, and it's a solace all at once. She's such a child, and she throws herself right against him, crying, sobbing, tears rolling down her face, whimpers snaking out of her mouth,

_OhhelpmeDaddypleasedontletthemhauntmeanymore_.

 "Let's put a smile on that pretty face of yours, huh?" he suggests, smiling kindly, and he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket; hands it to her. "No use crying over spilled milk, I always say."

She takes it from him; it's unblemished, not like her, and then he's gone and their fingertips brush.

            "It's not going to end," She says, matter-of-factly, and grabs her wrist; handcuffs; just a couple of bad girls in the back of a police car.

            She feels so soiled next to Her kind of holiness.

            "Why?" she asks, and it's timid and unnerving, the shattered dissonance of her tone.

            "Because," She says, and looks down for a moment; down into nothing; endless; because that's turned into everything in this place.

            Salvation, and happiness; stupid fairytale things; blow down the gingerbread house, and there isn't anything. Out alone in the cold. She squeezes the handkerchief 'till her knuckles are white, _hoping_, and looks down to see it's scarlet now.

            "Because," She says again, and the knife gleams against the dryness of the sunlight. "you won't 

let it."


End file.
